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what use these slender fingers,
uncallused and already wrinkling,
when idly they rest on the keys,
and speak in silence only

what use are these cold hands,
when they're not wrestling with the world,
wringing it for words to keep
and to preserve

what use my skin, my lips, my tongue,
when they're not singing all together
of the warmth of woman
and the laughing child

when idly i recline,
procrastinating,
bemoaning the shortness of these waning days,
what use then, tell me, are my hands?
©2009 ~UncleBrazzie
:iconunclebrazzie:

Author's Comments

Procrastination, moreso even than laziness, is the devils pillow. Worse than good intentions, more unforgivable than incapability, procrastination is the bane of the artist.

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:iconmoondrunk:
it's like you speak only to me
about me
for someone who abhors any structure that constricts free movement,
I forget that if you're free to do anything
you'll probably do nothing.
thank you for reminding me, my good friend,
if I may be bold to call you one.

--
"My little old man and I fell out;
I'll tell you what 'twas all about,--
I had money and he had none,
And that's the way the noise begun."
:iconunclebrazzie:
Those first two lines? That's what any poet really writes for ;)

Cheerz bud!

--
All truth is fiction.

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May 27
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